


Borrowed Time

by SpideychelleCarwheelerTrash



Series: 800 Follower Event 2k19 [2]
Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: AU, F/M, Prohibition, Prohibition AU, Prohibition Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 12:24:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18810856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpideychelleCarwheelerTrash/pseuds/SpideychelleCarwheelerTrash
Summary: MJ consumed him like a wildfire, and Peter was in love with the burn.





	Borrowed Time

**Author's Note:**

> //This is part of a running follower event on my Tumblr account, @you-guys--are-losers. I just hit 800 followers, so I posted a list of AUs that I am willing to do for any fandom pairing. Each request will receive a short fic fitting the specifications, and maybe more if I enjoy writing it enough! If you are interested in submitting requests, hop on over to Tumblr.
> 
> The AU prompt for this selection was "Roaring 20s AU" with one of them being a bootlegger, requested by an anon. I've never written in this era, but it was really fun, so I hope you all enjoy!

_Peter wasn’t supposed to be here._

Technically, nobody was; at any moment, cops could have come streaming through the doors of the speakeasy, and then they would all be in the john. But it wasn’t trouble with the law that Peter was worried about tonight. 

As he stepped into the hazy joint, Peter paused for a moment to shrug off his damp jacket and hat. No one looked his way, not that night. They were all huddled around the bar, looking for another glass of whatever smuggled liquor Peter’s…  _affiliates_ had supplied them with the day before. Peter himself had been responsible for overseeing the delivery, but tonight Peter wasn’t here about whatever swill filled the dead soldiers that littered the counter. 

He was here for  _her._

The smoky alto flooded the room from a stage across the joint. It wasn’t a particularly fancy place, but they did well enough to set up an old grand on the platform, as well as a microphone and an old drum set. Occasionally, different musicians would flit in and out of the joint, but they never managed to make themselves the center of attention. 

That was a spot reserved for Michelle Jones alone. 

As the pianist’s fingers tickled the keys and the drummer laid out a syncopated beat, she stood center stage with one hand curled around the stand of her microphone. In the dim lighting, the beading on her dress shimmered like a thousand pulverized bits of glass, and her hair drifted down her in large curls that brushed to just below her shoulders. Peter’s gaze lingered on the red lipstick that clung to the curve of her cupid’s bow for just a moment, but he knew that it wasn’t the clothes, the hair, or the makeup that made her incredible. 

It was the way that she breathed the music. 

From up on that stage, Peter could practically see her pouring herself into every syllable of the New Orleans-style jazz. As the melody intensified, so did her voice, and the sultry growl and the soulful moan of her song touched something kindred in every other being in the room, something that echoed that same desperation and mourning but couldn’t quell some hope.

She could use her voice to reach people that no one else could. It was this talent that ensured that every eye remained locked on her, that made her essential to the establishment and to keeping the city’s secrets coming to this particular speakeasy. 

It was this talent that put her in danger. 

He took a step further into the room, his eyes never leaving the stage. His ears, however, were free, and they picked up a conversation from beside him. Two gentlemen, to be exact, were seated at the bar with half-empty glasses, and their attention was on her as well. 

“What a doll,” drawled one, tipping back his hat to get a better look at Michelle before he took another sip. Peter glanced to him, then back at the jazz singer whose slinking movements sent every bead on her dress shining like a star. “Get a load of those stilts, hmm?” 

The two men chortled to themselves as a quiet, cold anger crept into the back of Peter’s mind. 

“D’you reckon she’s insured?” said the bald companion of the first man, taking a swig of his own drink. “I mean, with stilts like those…” 

Peter felt his hand tighten into a fist beneath his jacket as he glanced at them. He knew that their eyes were going to the nude stockings that clung to the singer’s legs, which were highly visible in the dress. 

“No way that someone isn’t enjoying those buds,” sneered the first man, raising a bushy eyebrow. 

Peter had had more than enough, and so he approached the counter then with his jacket and hat in hand, not thinking. “Evening, gentlemen,” he said coldly, turning his face to them with a smile. He was grateful that they could not see his hand beneath the coat, which was shaking slightly in anger and frustration both. “Enjoying your drinks? After all, that’s the only thing here you’re supposed to be ogling.” 

The men turned to face him, and Peter watched their faces turn from affronted to cowed as they took in his demeanor, his getup, and his familiar face. This was a bad idea… This wasn’t a scheduled visit, and Peter knew that it would be dangerous if his presence here tonight was widely communicated. But he wasn’t thinking clearly, not when they were saying those things about her. 

“Oh, just… Just gettin’ fried,” one of the men said, blinking and glancing over his shoulder. 

“We’re not lookin’ for trouble,” the second interrupted hastily. 

“Of course not,” Peter said, placing each syllable intentionally. “Because that wouldn’t be wise, would it?” 

“Can I help you, Mr. Parker?” Peter swore internally as he turned to face the man behind the counter. That wasn’t good– he was going to have to make sure he was the one handling the next few shipments here, otherwise, the bartender might mention it to the wrong people, and Peter would be in trouble. 

“Not at the moment, thank you,” Peter hummed, turning and offering the bartender a tight smile. “I’m just going to go use the john, if that’s alright.” 

“Of course.” The man’s gaze lingered on Peter warily, but Peter’s own eyes were drifting to the stage up front. She had seen him, talking to people, and now Michelle’s whole demeanor had shifted. Her eyes fixed on him for a fraction of a moment, then widened in panic as she turned to fix them somewhere, anywhere else. But the tension in her form could be noted even from across the speakeasy, and Peter knew she was going to be less than pleased. 

Peter brushed away from the counter, lingering in the shadows along the edge of the room until he slipped down a back hall. However, he didn’t take the path to the toilets. Instead, Peter wiggled the knob to a door with faded, powder-colored paint and slipped inside. 

The room was small, just large enough for a dressing table and bench, a wardrobe, a wastebasket, and a single, faded chair in the corner. Peter took a seat on its faded upholstery as he allowed his eyes to settle on the mirror, which was lit with bulbs. There were several drawings taped up there– a much younger Michelle, sitting in her mother’s lap, then a young girl seated at a piano, and an apartment that was messy, but homey. Those were clearly the oldest; the drawings on the newest paper scraps were sketches of dull skylines in a smog-filled sky, of a crowded street and an empty speakeasy. 

Peter wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, but when he heard the sounds of shoes in the hallway, Peter stood. Just in time, too– the door opened then, slamming against the wall right in front of where he had been seated in the small room. 

Peter found himself face-to-face with Michelle in the tiny room… Well, almost. Peter’s eyes met those of the taller woman’s, which widened first in shock. She hid it well, however, as she let out a frustrated exclamation, shoved him deeper into the room, and then shut the door. When she turned, they were so close that he could smell her perfume and see the little wisps of hair escaping along her hairline. But she gestured vehemently to the chair with a hissed, “What are you doing here, Parker?” 

“I came to see you,” Peter breathed, forcing himself to return to the seat. However, his eyes did not leave her face, and after a moment of maintaining his gaze, Michelle looked away. He could have sworn her cheeks were rosy. 

“Well, you saw me, then, didn’t you?” Michelle pointed out, still clearly flustered. “So beat it.” 

“Michelle-” 

“Mary Jane.” 

Peter furrowed his brow slightly at her interruption. “Mary Jane?” 

“It’s what I go by here,” she mumbled, turning to the dressing table. She began to remove pins from her hair, letting the glamorous curls fall loose in a manner that more resembled her normal hair. Peter thought that the soft, messier curls made her look like an angel, illuminated by her mirror. 

“Mary Jane…” Peter repeated, raising an eyebrow. He leaned slightly farther forward now, his eyes scouring her face. “Still MJ, then.” 

“I don’t go by that here,” she breathed, but Peter didn’t miss the breathless note in her voice. “You need to go.” 

Peter shook his head slightly, leaning back in the chair. “I can’t do that, Em.” 

That was all she needed. MJ whirled to face him, half of her hair unpinned and her eyes wild. “ _Why_ did you come back?” she demanded in a hushed whisper. Peter could tell that the walls were thin, and she did not want to be heard. “Why? Just because you’re some– some hard-boiled high hat now doesn’t mean that you can just waltz in whenever you want. And not only did you decide to haunt this joint tonight, but you decided it was a good idea to razz some of the patrons!” 

Peter winced, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not… I don’t think I’m a big shot, and I didn’t just show up here without a reason. Don’t you know that?” Peter couldn’t keep an earnest note from his voice as he spoke, and he stood from the chair to face her, eyes searching. “I’m not someone else, Em. I came for you.” 

“You’re not someone else?” MJ challenged. She stepped closer, closing some distance as she stared him down. “Then explain to me, Pete, what you’ve been doing with your life these past few years. Tell me about all of it: the dope, the booze, the new friends who have no problem bumping someone off-” 

“It’s not like that!” Peter burst out, stepping in so that they were inches from one another's’ chests. MJ’s eyes widened as she shot him a look that could kill. For a moment, they both fell silent, waiting to see if someone would come in response to Peter’s raised voice. After the silence had stretched on for a spell, Peter jumped to defend himself. 

“You know what happened, Em. You know what happened to Ben.” 

For the first time, a shadow of remorse crossed her face. MJ stepped away, and the new increased distance caused Peter’s heart to ache for her presence again. But he fought for her with words instead. “He was gone, and May couldn’t get work, not with her condition. I had to do something.” 

“So you decided to bootleg?” It was MJ’s turn to begin to raise her voice, though she caught herself sooner than he had. She took a breath, then continued. “They talk about you, here, sometimes,” she murmured, her intense gaze seeming to scour him. “They say things, about you and your pals and the ways that they rake in their dough. They’re scared of you, Pete. And the things they say… They don’t sound like the Pete I know.”

Peter winced, looking away. There was silence for a moment, and Peter knew she was waiting for him to speak. “I do what I have to,” he finally whispered. “I do what I need to to make sure May has what she needs and to pay off what Ben owed to them, but I don’t hurt people, Em. But…” 

MJ’s eyes locked on his, and that made it all the harder to continue. 

“But they do.” 

MJ let out a scoff, and she turned away from him. Peter’s heart raced as he gently reached for her wrist, but she pulled it back. “Michelle, you need to listen to me.” 

“Do I?” she retorted, whirling on him again. “Do I, after all you’ve done? You left, Parker.” 

“That isn’t fair. I left to take care of May-” 

“You left me, alone.” Her eyes pierced him like daggers, and Peter was frozen. “You left me, with her. By myself. And I worked, and I made it through, but I had to do it without you. I had to do it without anyone but me. And now, now that I”m here and I’m working and I’m doing what I love, you decide to come back and haunt me? What gives you the goddamn right?” 

Peter was silent for a moment, and he let her words sink in. He had left her. She was right, and that only ached more. He had left Michelle Jones alone in a dingy apartment with a mother who couldn’t do much more than fight her own demons of insanity every new morning. And maybe he did it for the right reasons, but that didn’t mean it was the right thing to do. 

“Nothing,” he murmured. “Nothing does. But I needed to warn you before it was too late.” 

“Warn me about what?” MJ’s voice was so filled with exasperation and anger that he wished she would stop speaking. 

Peter was silent for a moment, and MJ let out a derisive laugh. “You can’t be serious,” she breathed, incredulous in a way that Peter thought was meant to try and protect her from the truth. 

“I don’t want to be.” 

“What could they possibly want with me?” she retorted. “I’m a singer.” 

“You can be more than that.” 

“Like what?” 

Peter was quiet for a moment, and he sat then, looking at his folded hands. “Like someone who can gather intelligence,” he murmured quietly. “Eyes and ears, at first. But if you start with them, they’ll get you deeper into the operation. That’s how it always works.” 

MJ shook her head, turning back to the mirror. She began to pull out pins with newfound aggression. “Well, then they are going to be in for a real pleasant surprise whenever they come a-knockin’.”

Peter’s eyes widened, and he shook his head vehemently. “No, Em,” he insisted, panic creeping its way into his tone now. “You can’t. You need to go, somewhere far away from here. You’re in danger as long as you’ve caught their eye.” 

“You want me to give up my whole life here?” MJ shot back, not looking at him. Peter wished she would, just for a moment, join her deep brown eyes with his. She tossed the last pin into a dish on the table before turning to face him. “You want me to give up everything I’ve worked for, all my earnings, my apartment– everything she left behind, all because you told me to? If you think I’d do that, you don’t know me.” 

“I don’t want you to do it for me!” Peter exclaimed, tossing his hands up into the air. “I want you to do it because-” 

“Because why?” MJ prodded, stepping towards him again. “Why, Peter Parker? What reason could you possibly have for coming back, after all these years, and telling me to give up everything I know? Do you think I can’t take a couple of knuckleheads?” 

“Because I-” Peter’s voice broke off, and his eyes held a tangle of frustration and earnest, desperate longing as he looked into her own. MJ’s eyes widened a fraction of an inch, but she leaned in slightly, probably involuntarily. Peter took a breath. 

“Because,” he murmured, his gaze flickering to her lips, “I think you know that when I left, I didn’t leave you behind.” His hand found her own, the steadfast, slender fingers that were so familiar. “You were here.” 

Carefully, delicately, Peter guided her hand with his own until it rested over his heart. Through his shirt, Peter thought he could feel her fingers trembling slightly against his chest. For a moment, he stared into the eyes that were stony masks, refusing to show emotion. But just when Peter thought that she was going to let go, MJ brought her lips crashing into his.

The hand on his chest pushed Peter against the moaning, creaky door as she tipped her head down. Peter could taste her red lipstick as her lips explored his own, demanding more, more,  _more._ His hands rose, traveling up her back and tangling themselves in her soft curls that smelled like lilac perfume. She pressed closer and harder, and Peter was more than willing to give in.

MJ consumed him like a wildfire, and Peter was in love with the  _burn_. 

After what could have been a moment or an eternity, she broke the kiss and drew in a sharp, panting breath. Peter took in his own deep inhale, but for a moment, his eyes remained closed and his hands continued to stroke her sweet curls. One rose to cup her cheek, and she drew in a breath. 

“Come with me.” Her words were quiet, but they were biting and insistent as Peter opened his eyes. “Come away with me. Away from the city, away from all of this… Somewhere May can recover in peace.” 

A shadow crossed Peter’s face, and he shook his head slightly. “They’ll find me,” he whispered. “They’ll follow me, and you’ll be in just as much danger as you were.” 

“Or they won’t,” she countered, but there was a pleading note in her voice that begged for hope. It was desperation and it was exhaustion and it was a decision to press forward, to wish for something. “Or we’ll live out in the country, and they’ll give up and look for some other bimbo to peddle for them. And we’ll be able to stop living on borrowed time.” 

The unease Peter felt sank deep in his chest as her hand slipped up his chest to caress his cheek, and she leaned down to press a kiss there. It was gentle and it was heavenly and it stopped the thoughts for just a moment. 

Peter closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. He could tell she was holding her breath, but she exhaled when he whispered, “Meet me at the station in the morning. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going, or even that you’re not singing tomorrow.” 

MJ did not smile, but the passion in her eyes was enough to tell Peter what he needed to know. “I’ll be there,” she whispered, letting her hand slide down to rest on the nape of his neck for a moment. However, after a few more blissful seconds, MJ stepped away, taking her thin jacket from the wardrobe and sliding it on. She cast him one last glance, breathing, “Wait for a while, and then go out the back. And if you stand me up, Parker, you’ll have a lot more than the mob to worry about.” 

A soft snort of amusement left Peter’s lips as she left the room. In the quiet, he turned to the mirror again, staring at the man within. Lips smudged with red and a lipstick mark on his cheekbone… Messy hair, rumpled clothing. This was what Michelle Jones did to him, what she would continue to do once they started living for real. 

Still… Peter’s hand drifted to take down the sketch of the skyline, where jagged buildings erupted from the ground and pierced the air like a line of jagged, broken ribs. Dark, dim, shifting… Would he ever be able to go somewhere without it haunting his every step, lurking over his shoulder? 

Would they ever really stop living on borrowed time? 


End file.
